Murder of the Marital Status
by QueenofConstellations
Summary: When Rosie comes nosing back into Jack's life, he has a hard time deciding if he wants to put himself at risk for heartbreak with his ex-wife or the woman who claims to not be the marrying kind. With a killer of young girls on the loose that has his eyes on Jane, the Detective Inspector and Miss Fisher are put in close quarters. That does not help his though processes. Phrack.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Welcome to my first Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries fanfiction ever! I've only read a couple of stories so far, so I hope that I do this wonderful show justice. Also, as a note, I'm American, not Australian, so I'm sure some of the Australian diction will get lost in translation somewhere. My apologies in advance for that!**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing of this is mine, just the plot!**

 **Chapter One: A Servant of the Law**

Miss Phryne Fisher didn't often let things slip by her; in fact, she prided herself on her observational ability. So, when she traipsed into the City South Police Station and was bombarded with the hushed but still too loud voices of Jack Robinson and Rosie Sanderson, she was momentarily taken aback. Jack didn't just bring conflict into his workplace, which meant that Rosie had brought it with her.

Phryne had tried with sincere effort to like Rosie, as much as her own mind would allow. Unfortunately, she found Rosie to be a little too cloying for her taste. Couple that with the dissatisfying situations that often brought Rosie into Phryne's life, and there was the instinctual bitter taste in the back of her mouth that appeared whenever Rosie's brunette curls were involved.

"I can't just decide –"

"You did before, Jack, what's the difference now?" Rosie sounded like she was halfway between pleading and demanding, and the silhouette of Jack's overly straightened back did not bode well for the conversation Phryne was about to interrupt.

So she lingered outside the door a little while longer, trying to pretend that the ever-so-slight tilt of her head was accidental and not caused by the sound of the argument reaching its peak.

"Rosie, you wanted this," Jack was saying loudly, struggling to control the volume of his exasperation. "I did what you wanted!"

Rosie sounded suspiciously like she was stomping her foot, and Phryne felt the uncomfortable feeling of dislike creeping up her spine. "Well I don't want it anymore," she complained. "If you were just doing what I wanted before, what's to stop you from doing what I want now?"

"Miss Fisher?" Hugh Collins, who had been mercifully turned away from the desk at the front of the station to take a call when Phryne had managed to sneak by him, called out for her a little louder than she would have preferred. She held a finger over her lips in a 'shh' gesture, and he subsequently dropped his volume.

"Can I help you?" he asked politely, trying to defy her request while still remaining undetected by the arguing former married couple.

"Actually, I just came to give you and Jack invitations to my annual Christmas party," Phryne said quietly, "but I happened to stumble upon an argument that I fear would only escalate if I interrupted."

Hugh quirked his nose at the door. "They've been like that for days," he confided. "I dunno what Miss Sanderson wants, though."

Phryne smirked. "Sounds like she wants a reconciliation, Constable," she moved toward the Constable in a smooth step that looked more like a dance than a simple step forward. He looked momentarily alarmed before he composed himself. "At least, that's what my keen detective senses are telling me."

"Are your keen detective senses telling you that you will not be weaseling your way onto my case, Miss Fisher?" Jack Robinson's voice was a little more strained than she was used to, but there was still his underlying current of amusement, a little bit of exasperation, and just a spark of flirting. Phryne turned halfway back to the Inspector, a smile covering the brief panic she felt when she thought he'd heard what she was saying. But he wasn't glaring at her; in fact, he looked relieved to see her.

Rosie was lurking just behind him, her eyes much less friendly on Miss Fisher's form. She probably could have dressed a little more conservatively, but what was life without a little fun? Her black, form-fitting trousers were one of her favorites, and her silver, shimmery satin shirt was heavenly on the skin. She fixed her clear eyes on Rosie and gave her a cheeky smile with no malice, hoping that Rosie would take her hint and play nice.

The brunette hardly returned the smile, so Phryne turned her attention to Jack. "Hullo, Jack!" she said brightly, as was her usual greeting. His eyes twinkled at her without actually releasing a smile, and Phryne let herself get momentarily lost in his gaze.

"Miss Fisher," he answered, his voice low, intimate.

Behind him, Rosie swiveled her eyes to her ex-husband, looking irritated. Phryne reached into her tiny handbag and pulled out two invitations, each tied with an emerald green ribbon.

"I just came here to give you and Constable Collins an invitation to my annual Christmas party," she passed one to Hugh, who took it gratefully, and one to Jack, taking great care to let her fingers brush against his rough knuckles. His eyes rose up to hers, their hands still barely touching, and she felt a blush color her neck. Damn Jack Robinson and his silent communication, she thought ruefully. He would be her undoing.

"Mr. Butler will be making a wonderful spread of his best dishes, and Dot has actually invited Lola to spend the holidays with us," Phryne offered, trying to fill the silence with something other than suffocating sexual tension. It was one thing to revel in it when they were alone, but with his ex-wife hovering by his elbow, it just felt crass.

"Lola? From the Imperial Club?" he asked, jumping in on her game. His eyes flickered back to Rosie for a moment but quickly found hers again, relaxing when she smiled at him.

"Apparently her priest thinks it would be a good idea," Phryne replied, finally relinquishing the invitation and returning her hand to her bag. "Forgiveness during the holy season and all that."

"Well, I will certainly be attending, then," Jack answered.

"Excellent!" Phryne clapped her hands together happily, ignoring the way that Rosie's countenance darkened at Jack's ready acceptance of her invitation. "Now, what's this about a case that you don't need my help with?"

His investigator face was back as soon as it had gone. "Exactly that, Miss Fisher. I do not need your help."

"Some stagehand from one of the new operettas was found stabbed in the alley by the theatre," Hugh confided when the staring contest between Phryne and Jack had gone on a little too long. Jack turned to him, two parts betrayed and one part amused, and Phryne latched onto the constable.

"Interesting!" she breathed. "I'll just go talk to my contacts at the theatre and get back to you."

She traipsed out of the station much the same way she entered, listening to the sound of Rosie starting yet another row when she should have been following Miss Fisher outside to leave the inspector to do his job.

…

As expected, Jack found Miss Fisher at the theatre when he had finally managed to extricate himself from Rosie. She came to the station whenever she and Sidney had a fight, and while that used to thrill him, now it was only becoming more of a nuisance. She seemed to believe her engagement to the other man was over for good, and she wanted to figure out if she and Jack could take another go at it.

He had been hoping she'd say something like that for six years, but, in typical Rosie fashion, she had to wait until he had finally decided that he didn't want to be with her anymore to realize that she didn't want Jack to move on. The emotional ride he had been on with her was enough to give him whiplash.

Couple that with his long looks at Miss Fisher, her delicate hands under his, the sweet way she gasped when he kissed her (all part of the job, of course), and he had a right dilemma on his hand.

Rosie would be happy being his wife again, at least until she decided once more that Jack was not the man she wanted him to be, and there he would be again, broken and left behind, while she went back to Sidney. Miss Fisher, on the other hand, was not only not the marrying kind, but was more the 'just have fun for a couple of nights' kind.

Neither option comforted him much. But, when he walked into the stagehand entrance of the theatre, he was assaulted with the sight of a greasy haired actor tracing his fingers down Miss Fisher's bare arm, lingering on her hand, he felt an innate rage so strong he had to clench his hands tightly to keep from sighing.

"Miss Fisher, I thought I told you that we wouldn't be requiring your assistance on this case," he announced his presence tightly. She turned to him at the sound of his voice, and he was shocked to see tears shining in her eyes. Immediately, his anger evaporated.

"Jack," she breathed, moving for him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Sophie Reynard, one of Jane's friends from school, was found dead in the alley this morning," she didn't reach out to touch him, but he could feel that she was itching to touch him. He hesitated, but finally gave in and took her hand in his for a moment.

"We haven't been informed of Sophie's death," Jack said, turning back to Hugh, who looked just as shocked as Phryne. "We're investigating the death of Spenser Wallace, one of the stagehands of this operetta."

He could see, suddenly in clarity, why Sophie's death horrified Miss Fisher so much. She was the same age as her sister, Jane, when she had gone missing. She had only so recently gotten closure for her sister's death; having the wound torn open so soon could shake even the unflappable Miss Fisher.

She took in a rattling breath that was obviously supposed to bolster her, but it didn't look like it was working. He lowered his chin to catch her eye and put his hand on her cheek. She froze, the intimate gesture probably reminding her, as it did him, of the time he had pounced on the danger of the moment to plant a kiss on her pretty red mouth. He let his gaze linger in her eyes no matter how much they ached to glance down at her lips.

She had no such limitations; her eyes were locked directly on his mouth, then up to his eyes, then down to his neck. She couldn't seem to get her characteristic charm back when she had been shaken this badly. Finally, he cleared his throat to get her attention.

"Let us do the preliminary investigation," he said quietly to her. "Go home, and I'll fill you in on what we find out tonight."

"Nightcap tonight?" she offered quietly? He smirked at her, trying to contain his genuine smile at the sight of her trying to right herself.

"As always," he answered, and let go of her cheek. She nodded, and leaned back in to his ear. This time, he had to steady himself at the feeling of her warm breath on his face.

"The ones that are going to talk the most are the ones that have the most to gain. The actors didn't even know Spenser's name. Go for the other stagehands."

Somehow, in her short three sentences, his hand had risen to rest on her waist. He realized where it was when she stepped back and he felt the absence of her hip in his hand. He gave her a nod; he didn't trust himself to speak while his throat was still thick with her close proximity.

He watched her leave.

…..

Rosie Sanderson was waiting for Miss Fisher when she pulled up to the house. She regretted immediately leaving Dot behind when she made her quick trip to the station that had turned into a two hour voyage that had shaken Phryne down to her core.

Knowing that she was going to have to tell Jane that her friend was dead, when she was so unequipped to hear it at her age, ate at her. She didn't think she could handle hearing about another young girl's death, despite the fact that Murdoch Foyle was dead. Any young girl reaching her untimely demise would always welcome nightmares, panic attacks, and moments of unparalleled sadness followed by nostalgia that choked Phryne more than she cared anyone to see.

"Miss Sanderson," she acknowledged as she slipped off her black hat and maroon coat and hung it by the door. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Rosie Sanderson was a pretty woman, Phryne had no trouble admitting that, but she became much less attractive when she was angry. Perhaps it was because her anger was predicated in insecurity, but Phryne found herself almost frowning at her guest. Quickly, she tried to rearrange her face into a more suitable expression.

"I wanted to talk to you about Jack," she said simply, offering no elaboration. Phryne felt her neck tense, as it always did when a woman wanted to talk about a man that Phryne currently had in her sights. However, to say she had Jack Robinson in her sights would be a disservice to what she felt for him. 'In her sights' belied a momentary, fleeting fancy. What she felt for Jack could only be described as a slow burn; something that was slowly consuming her despite her best efforts to control it. Either way, Phryne Fisher was acutely uncomfortable.

"Please, come into the parlour," Phryne offered. "Mr. Butler will bring us something to drink."

Rosie obliged, but she didn't look happy about it. Phryne was always amused by the notion that simple niceties could put people so ill at ease. It made it less likely that they would be outwardly rude to you if you offered them no immediate openings to latch on to.

"I know that you and Jack are…close," Rosie began, but the way her face pulled at the word 'close' implied that she thought Phryne and Jack were having some sort of dalliance.

"We are," Phryne agreed. "We're good friends."

"Nevertheless," Rosie powered through, "I would appreciate that you kept your distance from him from now on."

Phryne had rarely felt the need to laugh at an inopportune moment as acutely as she did now. She pursed her lips and swallowed it back. "I'm afraid that is not something that is in my control," she said simply. "Jack and I often come into contact because of our professions, not out of recreational social activities."

Rosie looked, in a word, confused. Relief fluttered across her face, and it was almost immediately replaced with anger. "You can chose not to become integrated into his cases, Miss Fisher," she insisted. "I'm aware of how you work."

"And how is it that you think I work, exactly?" Phryne asked as Mr. Butler sidled in with glasses of lemonade on a tray.

Rosie struggled to find the words to describe something she obviously saw as inappropriate. "You…you insinuate yourself into the cases and continue to investigate when he tells you not to!"

Phryne considered her words with narrowed eyes. "I can see how you would glean that from Jack's comments," she said amusedly. "But more often than not, I am hired by a third party that just so happens to also be part of the case that Jack is working. In that respect, I cannot control how often we work together."

She neglected to mention that she often just continued to help him because she wanted to be near him. She figured that particular tid-bit of information would not be welcomed.

"Why are you here, Rosie?" she finally abandoned her pretense, sipping her lemonade coolly. "Isn't this something you should be discussing with Jack?"

Rosie did not answer immediately. "Jack and I are going to get back together," she said finally.

Phyrne almost blurted out "Does Jack know that?" but swallowed the ill-timed question and instead said, "Then I'm not sure what I have to do with it."

Rosie groaned, exasperated. "Of course you know what you have to do with it!" she exclaimed. "You're always there, touching him, flirting with him, it's all very inappropriate, Miss Fisher."

Her patience was nearing its end. "Miss Sanderson, I do not endeavor to tell you how your behavior in polite society is inappropriate, so I would hope you would extend the same courtesy to me. In any case, this is still not something that pertains to me. I will continue to do my job as I see fit. If you want my working dynamic with Jack to change, then you'll have to speak directly to Jack."

Rosie opened her mouth to respond when a knock came at the door. Mr. Butler answered it promptly, and Phryne only had a moment to hope against hope that the inspector hadn't come directly back to her house to tell her of developments in the case before Mr. Butler was sticking his head in the room.

"The inspector to see you, madam."

Rosie exhaled sharply through her nose and stood as Phryne did. Jack rushed through the door and went directly to Phryne's side, reaching for her hand hurriedly. "Miss Fisher, I came as soon as I could. Are you alright?"

Phryne wrinkled her brow. "Of course I am, why wouldn't I be?"

He paused, letting go of her hand, and suddenly noticed Rosie's presence. "Rosie?" he asked. Then he quickly shook his head to clear it. "Never mind, I got a note at the station that you needed to see me, that something had happened to Jane. Where is she?"

Phryne paused, feeling panic start at the tips of her fingers. "Mr. Butler, has Jane come home from school already?" she asked without tearing her eyes away from the inspector. Mr. Butler's footsteps receded up the stairs and almost as quickly came back.

"Yes, madam, she is in her room."

Phryne immediately sagged in relief, landing almost gracefully in Jack's embrace. They weren't hugging but momentarily holding each other up. He was searching her face again and she saw it; the same look that had clouded his countenance before he kissed her the first time. He was frightened for her, about her. The thought strengthened her; she straightened up and stepped away from him.

"Do you have the note?" she asked.

He passed it to her, and she tilted her head toward Rosie, giving him permission to go to his ex-wife. He did, looking one part sheepish and one part annoyed.

"Rosie, what are you doing here?" he asked as Phryne opened the note.

 _Jack, come to the house as soon as you can. The man who killed Sofie took Jane. Please come quickly. –Phryne_

"I just wanted to talk to her," Rosie was saying.

"Jack!" Phryne interrupted them, but after Rosie's attitude, she didn't feel the least bit sorry. "Whoever wrote this note spelled Sophie's name wrong."

He was by her side in a moment. "So I suppose we can rule out the people at the school," he said, staring at the note again.

"And he knows who Jane is," Phryne breathed. "We have to keep her safe."

"We have to keep you safe too, Miss Fisher," Jack corrected, his hand reaching for the note once more. "Did you notice this?" he pointed to a flourish on one of the letters. "You never do this with your y's."

"Good eye, Inspector," she said appreciatively. "Try to see if Hugh can figure out where this paper was torn from," she fingered the rough edge. "It looks like a newspaper."

He nodded, still studying it. "I'll see you later tonight, Miss Fisher," he promised, turning back to Rosie. "You coming?"

She nodded and followed him, looking chagrined. Miss Fisher walked them to the door, ignoring the way that Rosie kept reaching for Jack's hand and the way the inspector was studiously oblivious. Whatever was going on with the previously married couple, Phryne wanted nothing to do with it.

Unless, of course, Jack was considering reconciliation with Rosie, in which case she would have to get very involved.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you guys for the sweet reviews that I got on the first chapter! I already love writing the dynamic that is Phryne and Jack; so I thought I'd continue right where I left off last chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the plot.**

 **Chapter Two: Do Not Be Afraid of Shadows**

"I'm going to give you one more chance to tell me why you were at Miss Fisher's house," Jack growled to Rosie as he opened the door for her to enter the car. She didn't answer him, but instead settled into the seat and stared straight ahead. He groaned inwardly. Whenever Rosie decided to shut down, there was no getting anything out of her. He had learned that the hard way, after years of trying to pry information from her so he could fix whatever she deemed he had broken. With an almost sadistic shrug, Jack realized that he was no longer her husband; it was no longer his duty to figure out what had her so irritated.

So he drove her back to her father's house, where she was staying while she and Sidney figured out their business, in complete silence. Despite Jack's forced nonchalance, he felt himself struggling to not question her. Old habits died hard, he supposed.

She seemed confused by his lack of interest as well; she kept turning her eyes to his profile when he focused on the road but he could feel the weight of her gaze, her eyes locked onto his set jaw, determined not to give in. It wasn't until they pulled up to George Sanderson's home that she spoke again, this time her voice timid.

"Would you like to come in for a drink?" she asked quietly, wringing her handbag in her hand.

"Are you going to tell me why you were at Miss Fisher's house today?" he answered with another question, and watched as she considered it.

"If you want," she conceded finally. "But you aren't going to be happy about it."

"I don't want another row, Rosie," Jack said tiredly, rubbing his hand over his face. "I have two murders to solve. Why don't I just leave you here and we'll talk about it later?"

"I went to tell her to leave you alone," Rosie blurted, suddenly unsatisfied with the idea of him leaving so soon. "Because we were going to get back together."

He had suspected as much, but hearing the words come out of her mouth still surprised him. "You had no right to go bandying about our business like that," he snapped. "Especially unconfirmed business!"

"You said yourself that you still loved me," Rosie was practically pleading with him now, no doubt knowing that he would be hard pressed to deny a begging woman. "And I still love you."

"We were married for a long time," he said gently, "so I will always love you. But I'm not in love with you anymore, and I don't think you're in love with me. We were separated for years before we got divorced. I don't understand why you've changed your mind now."

Rosie's hand clasped his in her own. "Will you at least think about it?" she asked. "I want to be with you, Jack."

He lowered his eyes to his lap. "I don't think you actually want to be with me," he answered. "What happens when I go back to staying out all night to finish a case? What happens when –?"

"When you finally decide that you're in love with Miss Fisher?" Rosie finished for him. "Fancy her all you like, Jack, but you'll never get a marriage out of her." Her voice had taken on a cruel tone that grated on his nerves.

As if he didn't already know that. He felt disappointment sting in his chest, but suppressed it. He didn't need to be reminded of what he already knew. "I need to get back to the station, so," he gestured out of the car, and Rosie reached for the handle to get out.

"Do you love her, Jack?" she asked, her voice soft. "Would you really be content to be a kept man instead of a husband?"

He didn't answer her, but let her slowly get out of the car, and drove away before the door was even completely shut. These were not the questions he wanted to work out in front of his ex-wife that was determined to become his second wife. He sighed heavily, resisting the urge to rest his head on the steering wheel while he was driving.

Did he love Miss Fisher? It was an easy enough question for him to answer, yet the words wouldn't come. He remembered the terror and grief that gripped him when he thought she had perished in that car crash; the way his hands shook when she got taken by Foyle. He knew that he cared deeply for her, or else he wouldn't have tried to extricate himself from her when he thought she didn't feel the same way. But in at least one respect, Rosie was right; he would not be content to be simply a kept man. He was old fashioned, probably too old fashioned for Miss Fisher's taste.

But unfortunately, despite his usually dour outlook, he was an optimist. A part of him would always hope for some idyllic future with Miss Fisher and her household of strays and friends that consistently occupied her guest rooms with laughter and happiness. He ached for some happiness.

He pulled up to the station, deciding not to linger in the car, and instead, headed straight for the door. Collins was writing something down when he walked in, but he greeted him all the same. Jack borderline ignored him and stalked into his office, finding that his attitude was significantly darker than he had originally anticipated. The idea of facing people put his nerves on edge; he wanted nothing more than to sit in his office and stare at the wall, lost in his thoughts.

But alas, he did not have that luxury.

"Inspector," Collins knocked on the doorframe, his eyes large and frightened. Jack waved him in. "The coroner's report on your stagehand came in a few minutes ago. Looks like he was stabbed, but he had been poisoned prior. The stab wound was inflicted before he died, but it was not the cause of death."

"The two options would have barely missed each other, Collins," Jack mused, taking the report from his hands and perusing it himself. "Interesting. Other stomach contents were bread, ham, pickles, and tea. Looks like he was probably poisoned at lunch. Let's figure out who he ate with."

He rose from his chair and paused almost as soon as he did. "Collins, have we heard anything about the little girl?"

"Sophie, sir?" Collins clarified. "Not yet. The coroner should be getting the autopsy report here as soon as possible."

Jack nodded, fixing his hat more securely over his hair. "Don't let me forget about Spenser the stagehand in the flurry to catch a young girl's killer, Collins."

The fact that his superior asked something of him, something that was probably akin to showing weakness, made Hugh Collins's face still in a terrified way. He seemed to sense, as Jack did, that this case was different than the other ones they did. This one would not be faceless, or go quietly into the night. This one would be a haunting.

….

Phryne knocked quietly on Jane's door, careful not to startle the young girl, who was reading a book, as she often did. "Can I come in?" she asked when Jane looked up, her fingers still turning her plait in a twist.

"Sure," she said, sitting up straighter in her bed. She pulled her knees up to her chest. Phryne almost corrected the childish pose, it being inappropriate for polite society, but decided against it. There wouldn't be much more time for childish gestures. "What's wrong?"

The simple phrase brought tears to Phryne's eyes. She hated having to be the one to do this to a girl who had already been through so much. She sat on the edge of the bed she had given to Jane, covered in the sheets that reminded her so much of her younger sister, and reached for her hand. The little girl momentarily recoiled, a leftover side effect of what that blasted hypnotist had done to her, but relaxed when Phryne's warm hand closed over her own.

"I need to tell you something difficult," Phryne began. "And it's going to be hard, but I would rather you find out from me than someone else."

Jane had turned fully to her now, her knees brushing against Phryne's own leg. Her face was turned up to hers in an innocent curiosity mixed with knowing dread. Phryne tightened her grip on her.

"Someone found Sophie's body in the alley by the theatre this morning," she said quickly, searching Jane's face for the realization. It was barely hovering there, like Jane didn't want to believe it, but Phryne's own quivering voice seemed to confirm it for her.

"Sophie's dead?"

Phryne nodded, unwilling to give any other details than that. She didn't need Jane waking up in a cold sweat, like Phryne often did herself, thinking of the horrors that her friend had endured. A sob escaped the young girl and Phryne pulled her to her chest, hugging her tightly while the little girl cried.

Oftentimes, Jane was so intelligent and capable that Phryne forgot how young she was. But it was moments like these, where she was clinging to her shirt, crying desperate tears, that Phryne realized that Jane was still so young, and had survived so many things that adults would never get over.

"What happened to her?" she asked, her voice small against Phryne's chest. She dropped her eyes to the top of the girl's head, already trying to come up with an excuse.

"I…I don't think that's what's important," she said uncertainly. "But the killer left a note with your name in it. So you're going to have to stay home from school a couple of days."

"My name?" she furrowed her brows. "Why me?"

Phryne shrugged. "That's a question I have yet to answer, but when I find out, I'll come straight to you."

Jane hugged her once more before releasing her. "You'll find whoever did it," she said with confidence, "You always do."

Phryne would be hard pressed to name a time where she felt more powerful than she did in that moment, with a little girl staring up at her with her red-rimmed eyes, placing all of her pride in her foster mother. She breathed a heavy sigh and nodded.

"I'll get them, Jane," she promised. "As long as you swear to stay safe."

Jane gave her a single nod and Phryne retreated from the room, shutting the door behind her. She could have sworn that she heard Jane sob again as the door closed, but couldn't bring herself to disturb solitary grieving.

….

The man that had been tracing his hand down Miss Fisher's arm when Jack had arrived at the theatre was known as Donald Kastan. He was a stagehand, like Spenser, and while they weren't friends, they were friendly. Jack found himself scowling at the man, wondering why he would have felt familiar enough with Miss Fisher to touch her bare skin like he knew her intimately.

"Are you from Australia, Mr. Kastan?" he asked, making notes in his notebook. The man's accent was so faint that he wasn't sure where he was from, but it certainly wasn't here.

"London," he clarified. "I came here when my mother passed on. The only family I have left is my brother, and we don't get on."

Jack could hear the English accent more prominently now. "How long have you been in the country?" he asked.

"Only a few years," the young man replied. "Wait…you don't think I did this, do you?"

Jack ignored his question. "Do you know who ate lunch with Spenser today?" he asked instead. "Anyone he often had lunch with?"

"Mighta been Regina," Donald replied easily. "Regina Lastor? She's the lead actress," he looked surprised that he would have to explain this to the policemen, but Collins looked just as confused as Jack felt, so he didn't bother pretending to know what the operetta was. After his own failed venture into the performing arts, he didn't often keep up with it.

"Where can we find her?" Jack asked. Donald pointed to a hallway adorned with doors that led to anywhere imaginable.

"Her dressing room is the last on the left," he specified. "If you'll excuse me, I have to start making sure the set is in place."

Jack nodded and watched him leave, with the ease of someone that wasn't hindered by guilt. He turned back to Collins, who shrugged. "He has an alibi for the time of death that seems pretty solid, sir," he said. "Was at the pub most of the night. Some people can confirm it."

"Keep an eye on him, Constable," Jack said anyway. "I'm not sure I trust him yet."

Deep in his gut, he knew that his mistrust wasn't with the stagehand, but with the easy way that he was talking to a woman that did not cross paths with him in any usual way. He still didn't understand the connection between Phryne and Donald, and if the information wasn't readily offered, he would have to ask the woman in question herself.

Regina answered with a breathy "come in!" when Jack knocked on her dressing room door. She was a beautiful blonde, her high cheekbones and dark red lips reflected in the illuminated mirror that she was using to reapply her makeup. She glanced up when Jack and Collins entered, and Jack watched as her eyes hungrily drank in first him, and then Collins.

He furrowed his brows, trying not to be annoyed. What was with women today?

"Miss Lastor," Jack began, surreptitiously glancing down at his notebook to make sure he got her name right. "My name is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, and this is Constable Hugh Collins. We're investigating Spenser's death."

Regina's face comically shifted from her previously hungry look to one of pure devastation. "Of course, poor sweet Spenser," she said mournfully, resting her manicured hand over her heart. Her chest was too exposed, her dressing gown open a few too many buttons, and Jack quickly averted his eyes.

"Did you know Spenser well?" Jack asked, watching her face carefully so he could avoid looking anywhere he shouldn't.

"Well enough," Regina answered evasively, turning back to her mirror and pursing her lips. "He made sure that my props were always were I could find them."

The quiet scribbling from behind him told Jack that Collins was writing down that particular tidbit of information. Good. He tilted his head at the actress, who wasn't as good an actress as her leading role would have him believe. Her eyes couldn't seem to focus on anything in particular, and her previously steady hands were much less sure than before.

"One of the other stagehands indicated that you often took lunch with him," Jack said gently, watching for a change in her face. Her face stilled with the effort of not giving herself away. Rookie mistake.

"We ate together every now and then," she answered finally.

"So you were a little bit closer than just professional friends," Jack intoned, nodding to Collins to make a note. The girl seemed scandalized by the idea, but did not refute it. "What exactly was the nature of your relationship?" he asked.

She didn't answer him, but reached for a white stole that she fixed around her neck, reminding Jack very much of Miss Fisher, and gave him an imperious stare. It seemed she was getting her acting legs back under her.

"Just because Spenser ate lunch with me sometimes doesn't mean anything untoward was going on," she sniffed. "Spenser just…watched out for me sometimes."

"In what manner?" Jack asked. When the girl withered under the question she was unwilling to answer, Jack pressed a little harder. "We can do this here, or I can take you down to the station. If you don't tell us the truth, you'll be considered a suspect."

"Spenser and I did not have a romantic relationship," Regina insisted, her red lips sticking out in a pout. "It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" he asked again.

"Spenser was my brother," Regina admitted quietly. "My half brother. I got him the job on the show because he couldn't find a job. His…drug habit wasn't something that other employers found attractive."

"A drug habit?" Jack repeated. He turned back to Collins, who shrugged.

"Cocaine," Regina said, reclaiming her seat, her head bowed in embarrassment. "Our father disowned him when he was young because he was…according to father, more trouble than he was worth. So he kind of just drifted between friends and kind people before I got him this job."

"Can you give us any names of the people he might have gotten his drugs from?" Jack asked, already dismissing the girl as a suspect. She shook her head.

"He didn't even like eating lunch with me," she said, tears coming afresh on her cheeks. "He only did it to make sure that I ate."

"Do you suffer an ailment, Miss Lastor?" Collins asked, his voice soft and comforting. Jack cherished Collins in moments like this. Those were details he wouldn't have caught while his mind was turning too loud to hear.

"When I first wanted to be an actress, I used to make myself throw up after I ate so I wouldn't get fat," Regina's voice was quivering, broken, her eyes full of a sea of troubles that Jack didn't have time to unravel.

"Did you eat lunch with him yesterday?" Jack asked as Collins fished out his handkerchief and passed it to the weeping actress. She dabbed her eyes, trying to keep her makeup intact. She shook her head.

"He said he would sit with me, but he had already eaten," she said. "Why? I thought he was stabbed?"

"He was also poisoned," Jack said. "Poison is what did him in, not the stabbing."

Regina began to weep anew and Jack felt uncomfortable. He glanced up at Collins, who shrugged.

…

Phryne had already had a couple of drinks by the time that Jack made it back to her house. She was sitting in the window, her feet curled up close to her, a glass cradled in her hand. Jack lingered in the doorway, his eyes on her form. She was so thin, he noticed. He wondered if she had ever done what Regina Lastor had done.

"Jack," she helloed when she noticed him standing there. "I thought you weren't going to come."

"I had an interview with the victim's sister," he explained. "Once she started talking, it was hard to get away."

He took the seat across from her so that her toes were barely brushing his leg. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, red-rimmed, and held something he rarely saw in Phryne Fisher. Doubt.

"What can I do?" he asked without bothering to find out what was wrong. Her eyes settled on him, and Jack had the distinct feeling she was drinking him in, like she didn't know when the last time she'd see him was.

"I don't know," she admitted finally, her breath shaky. He struggled to find something to say, but everything they could talk about wouldn't help her current disposition. After a long silence, he opened his arms and tilted his chin at her, hoping she'd take his silent offer.

She sidled up to him, curling into his side like a cat. "I told Jane about her friend," she whispered, her head turned away from him, facing out the window. "She's not going to school until we catch whoever did it."

"We're still waiting on the coroner's report," Jack replied. "We're going to get whoever did it."

"Promise?" Miss Fisher's voice was still not as strong as he was used to, but she got like this when the victim was a young girl. He nodded, trying to resist the urge to kiss the top of her head.

"Can I ask you something?" Jack asked quietly. Miss Fisher turned her head up to him, and he was suddenly struck silent; their noses were practically touching, her breath warm on his face, smelling vaguely of port.

"Always," she answered.

"Have you ever…made yourself throw up?" he asked, his hand that was around her waist settling on her incredibly flat stomach. She furrowed her brows, considering the question.

"Only the one time I thought I had ingested poison," she said blandly. She didn't bother asking why he was asking. She leaned out of his embrace momentarily to lean towards the container of port. She poured herself some and passed one to Jack. He took a sip but it didn't feel earned.

"I hear you and Rosie are getting back together," Miss Fisher finally said, her voice deceivingly unbothered.

He suddenly wished she was facing him so he could gauge her reaction. "Rosie wants me to consider it."

This time, he felt the reaction in her body. Her shoulders stiffened, her back straightened, and she surreptitiously moved away from him. He wanted to sigh. There was no way to win in this scenario. No matter what, he'd be showing his hand to a woman who probably didn't want to see all of his cards.

"If I were being honest," he finally said into the silence, Miss Fisher's head turning sharply toward him. "I'm still a little old-fashioned, and I think I'd only be happy if I were someone's husband, someone who loved me in return. Unfortunately, the person I truly care for would never consider that a romantic notion."

She was watching him through the curtain of her eyelashes. She wasn't stupid; he knew she understood what he meant. Finally, she sighed.

"Does that mean that you aren't going to give her a chance to make you happy without a wedding?"

There was something incredibly soft and hopeful in her voice now, a tone that he rarely heard from her. He shifted so that she could face him completely now. Her eyes weren't locked on his, but rather staring at a place around his chest area, as though she couldn't bear to look at him.

"I wasn't aware that was an option," he replied carefully.

"And if I told you it was?" she answered, finally daring to look into his eyes again.

He felt his lips spread into one of the first smiles of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Welcome back!**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter Three: He Sighed**

Jack found he couldn't wipe the small grin off his face his entire drive back to his house. He had to stay at Miss Fisher's longer than he anticipated, indulging in another drink after his first, justifying his hedonistic choice as a celebration of their communication. He smiled wider when he thought about the coy way that Miss Fisher smiled at him when he asked her if he could pour her another drink. He had chosen, against his better judgment, to put off kissing her just yet, knowing that when he had the opportunity, he would be spending the night with her, clouding his judgment when he should be careful as they took their first steps as a casual couple.

He pulled up the drive, almost wincing when he realized the light in his bedroom was on, meaning Rosie was in there, probably waiting for him, thinking she could seduce him into becoming her husband once more. He let the thought of Phryne Fisher's soft smile bolster him as he straightened his hat and shut the door to his car.

But his smile faded when he got inside, hanging his hat by the door and slipping out of his coat. "Rosie?" he called, hoping to lure her from the bedroom. She didn't answer, but he knew she wasn't asleep. The house wasn't drowsy from sleeping forms, but alive with tension. He sighed and made himself a cup of cocoa, hoping the chocolatey taste would mask the smell of Miss Fisher's expensive port.

Rosie was still determined to wait for him in his bedroom, it seemed, once he finished his cup of cocoa with no sign of his ex-wife. He put the cup in the sink and resigned himself to the inevitable fight that was about to happen. He thought again of Phryne, the hopeful way her eyes held his when she asked if he would let her make him happy, like she was sure he was going to reject her. He, reject her? That fear seemed so completely far-fetched that it almost made him laugh.

How could anyone reject Phryne Fisher? Wasn't that against some cardinal rule of the universe?

Rosie was sitting by the window, much like Phryne had been when he finally got to see her. She was in her white nightclothes, her hair down. The familiarity of her pose, their own space, and the tension in the room almost gave Jack déjà vu.

"Rosie," he said, trying to keep any anger and frustration out of his voice. She turned toward him, her eyes stained with shed tears, and Jack regretted immediately asking "What are you doing here? How—?"

"I still have a key, Jack," she said softly. "Is my presence that bothersome?"

He suppressed the answer she didn't want. "What happened?" he asked instead.

"Sidney and father," she said, tears already spilling over her cheeks again. "I went by father's to get some things and he and Sidney were arguing about some business deal and how father couldn't be a part of it if Sidney wasn't going to marry his daughter anymore."

Jack sighed heavily. That removed the possibility of a reconciliation between Sidney and Rosie. "I'm sorry that happened, Rosie, but I'm very tired, and I'd like to go to sleep."

He motioned to the door, but Rosie didn't move. She stared at him, looking quite like a wounded puppy, and Jack sighed. "We aren't staying in the same room, Rosie."

"It's not like we haven't before," she said calmly, raising a shoulder.

"We spent more nights apart than we did together," he countered. "Between the war and our separation and our divorce –"

"Can we not talk about that tonight?" Rosie moved from the window to the bed, and Jack had to resist the urge to shout at her. She had just been beside herself because of her broken engagement and her father's apparent business fraternizing with her ex-fiancé, and now she was trying to coerce him into getting into bed with her. With a guilty pang, he realized he wasn't even interested because Phryne's imminent coercion of the same nature was much more appealing.

He sighed again, realizing he kept doing that around his ex-wife now. "Fine," he said, grabbing his own nightclothes off his dresser. "I'll stay in the guest room." He shut the door firmly behind him, leaning against it, waiting for Rosie to follow. When she didn't, he moved toward the basin to wash his face, thanking the universe for small miracles.

…

Jack woke early the next morning, dressing and slipping out the door before any sounds could be heard from his room, where Rosie was undoubtedly still slumbering. Excitement was bubbling in his gut as he escaped his house and headed toward Miss Fisher's home. They were supposed to meet at the station, but since he was up so early…he shrugged and parked in the lane, fixing his hat the way she liked it.

She was in the kitchen when Mr. Butler let him in the front door, munching on a piece of toast with marmalade, just like the kind she often took from his own plate. Her face brightened when she saw him, the blue of her eyes practically sparkling at him. How could he have ever doubted her feelings for him? Jack grinned back at her, trying to rein in his smile in front of her staff.

"Jack," she acknowledged him, pushing her plate toward him in an invitation. "Did something happen?"

"What?" he asked, momentarily lost in her face. She cocked her head like a confused puppy and he suddenly understood. "Oh, no. I just…got up early, and…"

"Good morning, Inspector," Dot chirped, slipping around him with a teapot, pouring tea into cups. He stopped speaking, leaving his eyes on Phryne. She grinned at him, their giddiness filling the room with a kind of giggly atmosphere that confused Mr. Butler and Dot.

"Good morning, Miss Williams," he replied finally, taking the seat in front of Phryne. "I thought I could give you a ride to the station," he said, swiping the other piece of toast off her plate and taking a tentative bite. "We should have the coroner's report soon. I know you'd want to see it."

Phryne's eyes, amused at his thievery of her toast, darkened at the mention of the little girl's death. Her blue irises lowered to her tea cup and she addressed Dot before she answered him. "Dot, can you go check on Jane? See if she wants any breakfast."

"Of course, Miss," Dot replied readily, grabbing a tray and piling it high with toast, an omelet and tea.

"I would be delighted if you gave us a ride, Inspector," she answered finally. He tried to give her a bracing smile, but it didn't look like it really worked. As a final measure, he slid his hand over hers and squeezed gently. Quietly, and as discretely as possible, Mr. Butler slid another piece of toast on Miss Fisher's plate and a plate with toast in front of Jack.

The awkwardness made Phryne's lips turn upward in a smile.

…

Jack could feel Phryne's tension as he slid the coroner's report onto his desk and sat, waiting for her to take up her usual perch on the edge of his desk. As much as he complained about her getting into his personal space, especially in a work environment, her spot on his desk was always cleared for her. And the view of the edge of her garters was a masterpiece he would never deny.

But instead, she sat in the chair across from him, her red lips pursed in seriousness, while she waited patiently for him to open the file and deliver Sophie's death sentence. He acknowledged her purposeful space with a soft nod and opened the file, scanning it for anything that he deemed to gruesome for Miss Fisher, knowing all the while that it wouldn't matter. She would demand every morsel of information anyway.

"Looks like Sophie was killed with the same blade that killed Spenser Wallace," he said, and he heard the creak of the chair as Phryne gave up her space and invaded his. Her French perfume wafted into his atmosphere and he inhaled her scent gratefully.

"But no poison," she breathed, relieved. "So we might be looking for two killers."

"If the knife was the same, I would think it would be the same killer," Jack replied, flipping the page of the report. "But why poison for Spenser?"

"Maybe Sophie was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?" Miss Fisher asked, hope in her voice. Jack felt where her hope came from. The idea that someone could just snuff out a child's life, with the intent of doing so, was disgusting. He placed his hand on her knee, relishing in the exhale that brought from her.

"Maybe," he breathed. He left his hand on her knee while he continued to study the coroner's report, neither of them saying anything. They stayed that way for a long time, taking what small comfort they could in that small gesture, especially in the presence of such a tragedy. Finally, Jack removed his hand from her leg and stood up. "Why don't we have a cup of tea and we can go ask around her school?" he suggested.

"You're the inspector," she shrugged, trying to be playful but not really succeeding. He chuckled at her, knowing that she needed all the help she could get pulling her spirits up when a young girl was the victim of murder, and stepped into the hallway to speak with Constable Collins.

"Johnny!" a voice of his long distant past jolted him, and suddenly, a slight girl with long dark hair had her arms around his neck and her lips on his. Startled, he dropped his hands to her waist and pulled her away from him. Her eyes, bright brown and full of spunk, brought an immediate smile to his face.

"Alina!" he exclaimed. "You got out of Russia!" He drank in her slight, short form, her fairy thin bone structure, impossibly high cheekbones, and plump lips, now flushed with their kiss.

He could just hear Constable Collins from the end of the room. "Sir, there's someone here to see you," he said with the tone of defeat.

"I listened to you, finally," she nudged him in the chest with her shoulder, smirking up at him. "It only took me a few years." Her eyes focused on something behind him. "Hello, I am Alina Frederickrovna."

"Miss Phryne Fisher," her voice was cold, but she made a valiant effort to sound welcoming. Jack immediately felt caught, as if he had invited Alina's surprise kiss.

"Miss Fisher is a lady detective," Jack said to Alina, who was still grinning. "She assists me on cases."

"Pleasure to meet you," Alina said pleasantly to Phryne, who smiled back at her. Jack felt nervousness blossom in his stomach. There was no doubt in his mind now that Phryne had seen Alina kiss him. He sighed internally.

"So, how do you know Jack?" Phryne asked her, her blue eyes dangerously calm. Jack groaned.

"He was in Russia for a short while during the war," Alina said, her voice lowering to the purr that Jack used to like so much. "He took refuge in my family's house." Her hand was back on his arm, and he knew Phryne would catch exactly the implication.

There was surprise in her voice and probably on her face, but Jack found he was too nervous to actually look at her. "Oh, so you are _old friends_!" she said, emphasizing the euphemism they often used for past lovers.

Alina nodded. "Very good friends," she said with no vitriol. "And then, when Johnny came back to Australia, we exchanged letters for years. I was unhappy in Russia, and Johnny was the one that told me to gather my courage and leave. And I finally did!"

"Interesting," Phryne directed at Jack, who could feel the embarrassing blush coloring his cheeks. There was a coldness in her voice now that he didn't like. He thought fondly of only a few moments ago when he had his hand on her knee, sending little electric jolts through them both.

His past with Alina was not particularly complicated, but it certainly wasn't simple enough to be explained in the few sentences that Alina allotted. He could see where Phryne's mind was going now; she thought he had been unfaithful to Rosie while he was deployed during the war. While that was technically true, he and Rosie had been separated already by the time he got sent to Russia.

Alina had been only seventeen then, the tough daughter of Bolshevik sympathizers. He had pretended to be a Communist if only to survive the hellish winter, and Alina had confided in him that she wanted to run from her family, who had betrothed her to a brutish man that was fighting for the Bolsheviks. She wanted freedom, she wanted warmth. She wanted to run away.

He had found that desire invigorating and her toughness comforting. They spent most of their time in her family's barn, making love and talking about how she could get out of the country without her family finding out. He had speculated bringing her back himself, but she refused. He was still married, despite being separated from his wife, and she wanted to get out herself.

Her pride kept her in Russia the next few years. They exchanged letters of affection but not love, settling on being good friends when he tried to reconcile his marriage. When it finally fell apart, he romanticized bringing her from Russia, since it seemed Miss Fisher wanted nothing to do with him other than a night or two.

But what he felt for Alina was fondness, affection, and what he felt for Phryne was…much more than that.

"Of course, Miss Fisher," Alina was saying, and suddenly Jack realized he hadn't been listening to the conversation. "I'll stop by this afternoon."

"What?" he asked.

Alina turned back to him like she just remembered he was there. "Miss Fisher offered to let me stay at her house while I look for my own place," she explained. "Keep up, Detective Inspector."

Phryne was still looking at him, her eyes still trying to figure out the situation, but she gave Alina a soft smile that only reinforced to Jack that she was hurt. He cursed himself. Between Phryne, Rosie, and now Alina, he couldn't keep any woman happy.

Phryne and Jack watched Alina leave, and the uncomfortable silence that fell after that made Jack wish he followed her out.

"Old friends, huh?" she asked politely, trying to keep her voice even.

He tried to shrug it off. "That was a long time ago."

She slipped on her coat, fixing her hat more securely on her head. "Didn't seem like much time had passed," she said.

"I haven't seen her in years," Jack defended, casting a look at Hugh for help. Collins suddenly became very busy with the telephone. "She's a good friend."

"Does Rosie know about her?" Phyne asked suddenly, "or was that a secret?"

Jack clenched his jaw. "I thought you didn't judge people," he countered, opening the door for her to exit so they could go to his motorcar. "Wasn't that what you said to me?"

"I'm also a child who watched her father sneak around on her mother," she said firmly, slipping into the front seat and slamming the door. Jack practically choked on nothing at the implication.

"Rosie and I were separated," he hissed as he slipped into the front seat of the car.

"And how old was Alina when you first became old friends?" she asked.

Jack felt himself sliding down a slippery slope he could never get traction on. "She was seventeen."

"She was a _child_ ," Phryne muttered.

"I thought I was going _to die_ ," Jack snapped. "I seem to remember you making rash decisions under the same premise. I thank you not to judge me for mine." He watched as Phryne flinched at his harsh tone, and tried to control his temper. "I thought I was very clear last night where my affections lied."

"And that was before a Russian ghost of your past came sweeping into the station and left her lipstick on your face," Phryne pointed out. Jack immediately wiped at his mouth, to no avail. "Why do you think she came to find you, Jack?"

"Because I'm her friend," he said unconvincingly, but Phryne almost laughed at him.

"Because she's new to the country, and if she wants to say here, she'll need a passport. Who better than to get it from than a newly divorced police inspector?" she asked. "I'm sure she'd be happy to marry you."

Jack almost slammed on the brakes as he fully understood why Phryne was upset. It wasn't that one of his former lovers showed up, despite the fact that she was still comfortable enough to kiss him full on the mouth in the middle of the police station; it was the idea that Jack might have wanted to marry Alina once, so he could decide to do it again.

And with Phryne staunchly opposed to the idea of marriage, that put her at a distinct disadvantage, especially since he had just told her the night previous that he wanted to be someone's husband.

As they pulled up to Sophie's grammar school, Jack turned to Phryne, whose face, he could see clearly now, was full of fear, not anger. He reached for her hand, but as soon as he did, she wrenched the door open and slid out, fixing her hat and striding into the school like she owned it. To the casual onlooker, she looked like the confident, modern woman she usually embodied. But only Jack could see the slight falter in her perfect step.

He sighed once more.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Welcome back, readers! Thank you for not entirely crucifying me for actually making Phryne jealous for once. I appreciate that you guys are trusting me to continue with the story. Let's continue!**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter Four: Say What You Feel**

By the time Jack managed to force himself out of his car, debating on allowing Miss Fisher her due space and his natural inclination for transparency, Miss Fisher had already tracked down the disciplinary office. He found her leaning against the door of the headmaster's office when he was finally, begrudgingly cleared by the secretary.

"Headmaster Carpio," Jack knocked gently on the door frame, dislodging Miss Fisher with a grimace. "My name is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson."

"Ahh yes," the portly man behind the desk said gruffly. "Miss Fisher said you would be here shortly. I take it you're here about that Reynard girl."

Miss Fisher shifted away from Jack to allow him to enter the room, and he tried valiantly to ignore her natural aversion. He was used to her refusing to move, forcing their bodies into close contact. Now, he felt the chill of her cool respect. "Yes, sir. She was murdered by the Victoria Opera House. Is there anything you can tell me about her?"

"I wouldn't be the person to ask, Inspector," the headmaster intoned. "I hardly come into contact with the students, unless they exhibit behavioral problems."

Miss Fisher shifted uncomfortably at the look the headmaster shot her. Jack spared her a glance, taking in the determined set of her jaw, and readdressed the man in the chair. "Did Sophie have any behavioral problems?" he asked.

"Not that I'm aware of," the headmaster replied. "If she did, they were never so severe that I was informed. If you would like to know more about her, I would talk to her teacher, Mrs. Castellanos. She is the one who would have had close contact with Miss Reynard."

"And where can we find her?" Jack asked, already turning toward the door. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, Miss Fisher surveying him. She had already disregarded what the man had to say, which meant he had either offended her or convinced her of his innocence before he had arrived.

"At the end of the hall, take a left. She teaches in room 11B."

…

"Is there something you'd like to share with me, Miss Fisher?" Jack asked, and Phryne could hear his attempt at civility. It rankled her. She tried desperately to appear calm and collected, but the appearance of another threat on the field, especially one so young and beautiful, had her rattled and a little insecure.

"About what, exactly, Inspector?" she replied, trying to mimic his calm tone. He rolled his eyes at her, finally breaking into the usual exasperated look he gave her, and she struggled not to smile.

"You were hardly even listening to him. What did he say that cleared him in your mind?" Jack asked impatiently.

"Nothing," she said simply. "I just don't like him."

Jack nodded absently, but the idea that she didn't like someone apparently confused him. After an inordinate amount of time nodding, he finally narrowed his eyes and spoke. "Why don't you like him?"

"He's the man that tried to get Jane expelled from school because she stood up to her bullies," Phryne retorted. Just reliving the idea made her angry all over again. She recalled, with frightening clarity, the day that Jane came home crying because Aunt Prudence had read her the riot act the whole way home for punching another girl in the face for stealing another child's glasses and shoes so she had to walk home blind and vulnerable. The headmaster had insisted that they wouldn't have girls like that at this particular, upright, upstanding school, and Jane had been unceremoniously suspended until Phryne had stomped into his office and demanded that the girls who stole glasses and shoes also be expelled.

After a long, hard fought battle, Jane was allowed to return to school. It was only through her sheer force of will and natural intelligence that she hadn't ended up weeks behind the rest of the students. She explained the short version to Jack, who quickly reconciled this story with the case she had let him solve by himself and connected all the dots like the observant detective he was.

"Jane gave that girl her glasses back, didn't she?" he asked. Jane had quickly become almost like a surrogate daughter or sister to him, and Phryne found that part of his character one of the most endearing.

"Jack, that girl was Sophie Reynard," Phryne said quietly. Jack, already raising his arm to knock on the door of Mrs. Castellanos's classroom door, paused long enough to give her a look full of something she couldn't quite quantify before dropping his knuckles to the doorframe.

Mrs. Castellanos's first name was Julissa, and she was a small, beautiful girl that carried herself like she was ten feet tall. Her hair was cut short, almost as short as Phryne's, but it was a sandy brown color that suited her pale green eyes.

"Sophie was one of the girls that got accepted to the school on scholarship," she explained when Jack asked her about anything that separated Sophie from the other girls. "Her family used to be pretty well off, but her father had a series of poor business partners that drained them of their money. The headmaster tried to have her scholarship taken away once she started getting bullied."

"Why take away her scholarship?" Jack asked, taking notes in his tiny notebook. The unfamiliar movement made Phryne realize that they hadn't brought their usual partners with them. Dot and Constable Collins, still wrapped up in their new marriage bliss, were less than available to the both of them, and Phryne and Jack were both reluctant to pop that bubble for them.

"Because he didn't want the idea that students here got bullied to get out," Julissa shrugged, turning back to her desk and rearranging the papers that were scattered over the wood. "A shoddy way to do it, if you ask me, but that's how Headmaster Carpio works."

Phryne made a grunting noise that sounded like an agreement, and the teacher's face broke into a smile. "You're Miss Phryne Fisher, aren't you?" she asked, finally acknowledging the other woman. "I'm so glad that you got Jane back into my class. She is such a bright girl."

A smile finally broke through the clouds that had been darkening Phryne's face, and Jack looked momentarily mesmerized by it. "I appreciate that, Miss Castellanos. Jane says you're her favorite teacher."

The self-assured woman actually blushed at the compliment. Jack, after allowing the two women to speak, jumped into the conversation again. "Miss Castellanos, do you know anyone that might have wanted to hurt Sophie?"

Julissa considered the question as the bell rang, startling the detective inspector and the lady detective. "The two girls that used to bully Sophie and Jane were Robin and Charlotte, but they're both fairly harmless. I would hardly think they'd stab someone."

"We'll need to speak with them anyway," Jack made a note of their names. "We'll have to contact their parents first."

The teacher nodded. "I can give you their information, as well as Sophie's parents."

Jack nodded his thanks. "Miss Castellanos, do you know if Sophie had any sort of connection to a stage hand by the name of Spenser Wallace?"

"Not that I'm aware of," she confessed, "but her parents would be better people to ask."

Jack shrugged like he expected that answer, but Phryne could see the tension coiling up on his shoulders. He was getting frustrated. Momentarily, she felt guilty for adding to his stress, but she caught a glimpse of a smudge of pink lipstick on his pouty mouth and immediately felt her shoulders droop again. Being confronted by Rosie was one thing; she had that battle won, despite her reluctance to refer to anything between two women as a battle. But Alina, a beautiful, young woman that had a history for Jack that extended obviously beyond just her looks, was another war she just didn't have the energy to fight. That wasn't a battle she would win.

"Miss Fisher?" he asked, his back already to the teacher, the classroom, and, as far as Phryne could see, to the whole situation. "Are you coming?"

She sighed, wrapped her blue jacket tighter around her shoulders, and followed him. He kept more than a safe distance between them on their way out of the building. Phryne was suddenly reminded of the time that he asked her to stay away from him, and their jobs (and Dr. MacMillan) had forced them together. She had made a joke then, telling him to follow behind her. Now she couldn't summon that frivolity.

They stayed separated until he reached the front door of the school, still managing to hold it open for her, despite the frustration that was clouding his face. Finally, he growled.

"What if Sophie or Spenser were victims only because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if it has nothing to do with their lives?"

Phryne paused to consider the idea, her feet poised at the edge of the top step down from the school, while Jack looked up at her from the bottom, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. She could hardly see his eyes, but she could see the tension in his hands, the place that the tension often settled.

"Spenser was poisoned, so that would indicate that he was very purposefully killed," she said slowly. "But he was also stabbed. So, are you saying that Spenser was stabbed because he saw Sophie's killer?"

He shrugged. "That's the only reason I can see that these two would have crossed paths. A young girl rarely goes to an opera house unless she's part of the cast. Sophie is part of a different social circle, a different area, a different age group. Their paths do not cross."

Phryne allowed a slow nod, finally choosing to step down from the steps. Jack, still lost in his own thoughts and his deep, ocean-like mind, offered her his hand and, without thinking, she took it. It was a gesture of propriety, of politeness, but the ease with which they accepted each other's contact when their guards were down was not lost on either of them.

Their hands did not separate until they got to the car. Neither of them said anything about it.

…

"Did you notice something different about Miss Fisher and the inspector today?" Hugh asked Dot, who let a small smirk take over her face as she rolled the cookie dough out on the counter. Hugh, sipping his tea pensively, missed the shift in expression.

"Did you?" Dot asked, using the tactic Miss Fisher taught her to turn the question around to figure out what Hugh's tip off could have been.

"Well, they were their usual selves the other day, but when Alina showed up, they –"

Dot paused in her rolling. "Wait, who is Alina?"

"Inspector Robinson's old friend from Russia," Hugh replied. "She showed up to the station today. Kissed the inspector on the mouth."

"Wait," Dot let go of the rolling pin and took the seat across from her husband. "She did what now?"

Hugh nodded, apparently not understanding Dot's urgency. "Miss Fisher didn't seem very happy either."

Dot had to sigh to keep herself from snapping at her husband. She loved him, more than anyone she'd ever known, but sometimes he could be so blind. She reached over the table and took his hand, very gently, and pulled it off the tea cup.

"Hugh, you know how much I love you?" she said sweetly. Hugh, momentarily taken aback, nodded. "Okay, well, that's how Miss Fisher feels about the inspector."

Bless Hugh Collins and his naiveté; he actually looked surprised. "Wait, she does? Why doesn't she say something?"

Dot shook her head. "Because she's Miss Fisher."

"That's no excuse!" Hugh snatched his hand back from Dot's, almost upsetting his cup of tea. "Dottie, the inspector's ex-wife wants to get remarried. If Miss Fisher doesn't say anything, then –"

"She came here yesterday," Dot admitted. "To tell Miss Fisher that she and the inspector were getting remarried."

Hugh physically deflated, his shoulders slumping. "Why can't they just –"

"Well, the inspector still came over for his nightcap," Dot said conspiratorially, "so…"

"I know it's not my place," Mr. Butler's voice startled the newlyweds, and Dot turned to see him, leaning against the doorframe. "but I heard Miss Fisher and the inspector admit their feelings for each other last night, at least, enough to stave off a remarriage."

"They did?" Hugh exclaimed.

"But that was last night, and if what Hugh says is true, I'm not sure those words will withstand the day," Mr. Butler continued, picking up the discarded rolling pin that Dot had given up. "Especially if that Alina girl kissed the inspector in front of Miss Fisher."

"Especially if they're old friends," Dot agreed.

"What does that mean?" Hugh asked, glancing between Dot and Mr. Butler. The two members of Miss Fisher's household shared a significant look that set of a light bulb in Hugh's head. "Oh!" he said, prompting a nod from the other two. "Oh no."

"Oh no, indeed," Dot said quietly. "I hope they patch things up before our Christmas in July celebration."

The rest of the room murmured their agreement. Mr. Butler's eyes rose to the window as the rumble of a car reached them. "Miss Fisher and the inspector have returned."

The room fell silent, each of them trying desperately to appear as though they hadn't just been talking about the people about to walk into the house. Dot rose and began to refill Hugh's tea cup as the door opened. The two new arrivals were silent. Hugh raised his eyebrows at Dot, who shrugged.

"I'm going to go speak to the parents," Jack finally said as the door closed. "I want to save your presence for later, if they hold anything back."

Miss Fisher's voice was uncomfortable; cold. "I'm going to go back to the opera house and see if there's anything I can get out of the stagehands that you couldn't."

"Like that Donald Kastan?" Jack's voice was sharp now, and Miss Fisher almost scoffed in response; Dot could hear her holding it back.

"Yes, exactly like Donald Kastan," she replied. "He was very helpful the last time I spoke to him."

"I'm sure he was."

There was a long silence after that; even the staff, listening from the other room, froze in their own tasks, waiting to hear what would be said next. Finally, Miss Fisher let out a sigh that was supposed to sound nonchalant, but instead sounded only frustrated.

"I'm sure you'll find someone to talk to while I'm gone," she said. "Alina, perhaps. Or Rosie."

"Miss Fisher –"

"If you're going to question my judgment, expect reciprocity," she answered shrewdly. "It isn't fair that you've been questioning my taste in men for…how long now? And suddenly, you're very offended when I do the exact same thing."

"That's not what I meant," Jack protested, and even Hugh flinched at the pain he heard in his boss's voice.

"Then what exactly did you mean?" Miss Fisher asked, and the room immediately stilled again.

"I…I don't want…"

"You don't want what?" she prompted, pushing him.

"I don't want to wonder if you're being ravaged by some stage hand the day after I admit my feelings for you," his voice dropped to a hiss, and Mr. Butler, Dot, and Hugh all leaned surreptitiously closer to the door.

"And I don't want to wonder if one day you're going to decide you'd rather be someone's husband, but here we are."

"It's not fun, is it?" Jack asked, his voice rising in volume. "Knowing that the person that you lo- that the person that you care for is sought after by other people, is it? That's how I feel _all the time_ , Phryne. Every second of every day, of every case. Every single day I wonder how long it's going to take before you get bored of me."

"And every day I wonder how long it'll take for you to tire of me."

Dot could hear the tears in Miss Fisher's voice now. With a grimace, she ushered Hugh out the side door. This wasn't something that was gossip to her anymore. Hugh gave her a sympathetic look as they looked back at the house, knowing the tumult that was going on inside.

…

Jack could count the amount of times he'd seen Miss Fisher cry on one hand. In fact, he only remembered her doing it once, and her eyes filling with tears one other time. But seeing it happen to her again, because of him, tore him apart like nothing he'd ever felt.

He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away, coveting her own space selfishly.

"You should go," she said, wiping her eye nonchalantly, initiating eye contact, daring him to say something about the tears on her face. "There are two murders to solve."

"I'd like to solve this first," Jack said, motioning between the two of them.

Phryne shook her head and lowered her eyes, and Jack could swear he saw a tear fall. "I'm not sure this is something that can be solved," she replied, crossing to the front door and holding it open for him.

Jack wasn't proud of it, but he let her shut the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Okay, so I originally had plenty of angst all up in this fic, but you guys are so alarmed by only a couple of chapters, so I'm going to drastically shorten that angst. So, as one reviewer suggested, I brought in the big guns.**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter Five: Ridiculous**

"You're being ridiculous," Mac said simply, leaning back on the chaise and sipping her whiskey. "Truly, I've rarely seen you behave so completely ridiculously."

"I get it, I'm ridiculous," Phryne groaned, holding out her glass to be refilled. Mac obliged her, watching her best friend with an almost amused expression. "But my ridiculousness is based in selflessness." Mac snorted, swirling the glass while she considered Phryne's justification. The darker haired woman looked alarmed at her statement being received with laughter. "What?"

Mac leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees, placing her glass on the table. "I have never doubted your selflessness. Not in the…many years that we've known each other. But you have never felt the need to broadcast your motives, since the actions would reveal them. Yet now, you do. Is that because you aren't actually being selfless?"

"Mac," Phryne groaned, letting her short hair block part of her face as she poured herself more of her drink, swirling it around instead of drinking it.

"You're being a bloody coward," Mac barreled on, ignoring her protestations. "You've never been a coward with men before. Or women, I might add."

Phryne allowed one of her eyebrows to quirk upward before she resumed her troubled pose. "Jack is different."

Mac smirked, realizing they were finally making progress. "Different how?"

"Don't," Phryne warned, finally sitting up. Mac held up her hands in mock surrender. "You're a doctor, not a therapist."

Mac was unfazed. "Yet, you called me here. For what reason, other than to lament about men troubles? Which you normally don't have, by the way."

"I'm aware."

"I mean, the moment one of your…men gives you any trouble, you move on. I haven't seen you cry over a man since…well, since your father. And besides, I'm not exactly someone to call if you want commiseration. I'm a problem solver," Mac seemed proud of that final statement.

"I didn't cry," Phryne protested.

"You were _crying_ when you called me, Phryne. I'm not an idiot. You, Miss Modern Woman, cried over a man. I know that must be a blow to your ego, but those are the facts. Jack is the only man I've ever seen you cry over, but you keep on going back. Why is that?"

"I called you here to drink," Phryne said grumpily, "not so you could dissect me."

"I'm a doctor," Mac shrugged. "It's my job."

The friends sat in uneasy silence for the next few minutes, neither of them willing to break it. Mac, while usually the one to easily snap Phyrne back into rational thinking, was encountering a lot more resistance than she was originally used to. She often represented, rather than a therapist, the mirror by which Phryne often viewed her issues and solved them with little help. This time, however, Phryne seemed unwilling to not only admit she had a problem, but to find a solution as well. To Mac, the answer was simple, but it involved Phryne doing something for her own self-interests rather than being a martyr. And, unfortunately, Phryne often found her own confidence from martyrdom.

Mac, even with her limited exposure to Phryne and Jack together, could tell that they both cared about each other. She would go so far as to say that they loved each other, no matter how much both of them avoided even mentioning that word. It was evident in the easy way they teased each other, the way they moved in sync, the careful way they sought out each other's skin. They were foils of each other, one light and one dark, one optimistic and the other pessimistic; no matter how many differences they had, they both hungered for justice, for happiness, and contentment. They suited each other; for some reason, those traits seemed evident to everyone but the two people in question.

She regarded Phryne closely. Her friend looked positively tortured, but it couldn't all be just in the reappearance of an old lover. She and Lin Chung had a perfectly good relationship up until his wedding day, and that didn't seem to bother her. Yes, Jack Robinson was different, indeed, but exactly how he differed from other men perplexed her.

She knew Phryne had loved Lin Chung, at least, as much as she allowed herself to. And yet, she let him marry someone else without any trouble.

"Why does Alina bother you so much?" she dropped her volume at the Russian girl's name, knowing she was only a story away. Phryne considered the question, like she didn't have an answer. Mac was not fooled.

"I don't want to underestimate the draw of a returned lover," she said finally.

Mac scoffed. "Like you've never had to fight for a man before."

"I do not fight for men," Phryne protested. "There's always another one available."

"Is there?" Mac asked, quirking her head to the side. Phryne seemed to realize what she said and deflated. "Is that the problem? Your morals protest fighting for a man, but you can't replace him?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Phryne replied, leaning forward to refill her glass.

"I would stop asking you these questions if you were just honest with me," Mac told her honestly. "I'm trying to help you, Phryne. I don't pry into your business for my health."

The dark haired woman nodded, a slight smile on her face. "I suppose that's true."

"The truth, Phryne," Mac prompted.

"He said he wouldn't be happy unless he was someone's husband," she admitted. "While I'm his only option, not being someone's husband could probably keep him happy enough, but with Rosie and Alina both available? I don't want him to feel obligated to me when his other options could give him what he truly wants."

"Phryne Fisher!" Mac admonished, momentarily disregarding her own promise to listen to her whole story silently. "You are not anyone's obligation."

Phryne shrugged. "He may think he wants me now, but once he realizes that he truly wants to be a husband more than some rich woman's kept man, he'll leave. I'm saving us both the trouble."

"So you really do think you're being selfless," Mac mused. Phryne glanced up at her, ready to dispute the semantics of Mac's declaration. "You're not being selfless, you're being selfish. You're protecting yourself because you're afraid that he won't love you." Phryne flinched. "Or, are you afraid that he will?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"How is that ridiculous?" Mac asked, her hands up. "You cherish your freedom, it's natural that you'd fear being committed to one man that might want to take that away from you. That's not something to be ashamed of. But when you're deciding to make the both of you miserable in order to keep the freedom that probably tastes pretty sour in your mouth right now, it is foolhardy. It's stupid, and you're one of the smartest people I've ever known."

Phryne looked momentarily ashamed, and Mac decided to drive it home.

"You thought your relationship with Jack was comfortable because he was always going to be around; now that there are other women that want him, you're scared because you don't know who he'd choose, so you're making the decision for him. You think that by giving him the answer you think he wants, you're saving the both of you. But you aren't. Because he would choose you."

Phryne rose from her place on the couch and turned away from her friend, and Mac knew she was struggling to keep her emotions in check. Mac allowed her a short reprieve, knowing that if she pressed her too hard, they would get nowhere. After a few moments, and a sip of her drink, Mac took a deep breath, and delivered her death blow.

"I lost Daisy too early," Mac said finally, letting the anger in her voice drain away to nostalgia. "And I didn't get to love her as long as I would have liked to. Watching you push away someone who loves you because of some petty fear is selfish; you have the luxury of pushing him away. I don't. You need to cherish the time you have."

Phryne turned back to her friend, tears shining in her eyes. "Mac, I'm –"

"Save your apologies," Mac waved her off. "That's not what I want. I want you to have the opportunity that I squandered. He loves you, you love him. Society be damned. His ex-wife be damned!"

"Your friend is right," Alina was leaning against the parlor door, her hair, finally unpinned, long and dark against the pale pink of her nightclothes. "Johnny does love you."

Phryne and Mac exchanged significant looks, trying to determine how much of their conversation to deny, but the little Russian girl waved them off.

"Johnny and I loved each other once, sure," she said, ignoring the way Phryne's eyes jumped up to her. "But we were never in love with each other. And, after a couple of years of writing to each other, he started writing about another woman. He never named you, of course, but I'm pretty sure he was writing about you."

Alina took one of the open chairs, crossing her legs daintily at the ankle. "I came to Australia to get out of Russia," she confessed, "not for Johnny. He's a wonderful man, sure, but I didn't seek him out to marry him. I just wanted to see him again."

"Alina, I'm sorry –" Phryne began, but the girl shook her head.

"For what? For having emotions?" she shrugged. "You have nothing to apologize for." Phryne gave her a wry smile, and Alina smiled back. "You and Johnny deserve to be happy," she mused, pulling a piece of paper out of the pocket of her nightclothes. "So I think he'll forgive me for showing this to you." She passed Phryne a letter, worn at the edges, full of Jack's distinct handwriting.

"Read it," Alina insisted. "And I took the liberty of calling Johnny. He'll be here in about ten minutes."

Phryne turned back to Mac, who was smirking at the girl.

"I never thought I'd say this, but it's suddenly apparent to me that Jack Robinson has a type," she said, standing up and draining her class. "I think I'll take my leave then."

"Mac –"

"Don't be stupid," Mac warned her, and kissed her briefly on the lips before leaving, Alina following behind. The two women parted at the hallway, Mac out the front door and Alina up the stairs.

Phryne was left alone with the letter, debating on whether or not to open it. She retreated until her calves his the chaise that Mac had been sitting on, and she lowered herself to it, staring at the writing on the front.

"Little Alina," it read, "I fear I have miscalculated my feelings for the Dark Lady. I got a message this morning from Constable Collins about a motor car wreck and thought that she had been killed. Rarely have I broken so many laws to get to her than I did that day. But fate smiled upon me; she was still alive, and just as infuriating as ever. But I couldn't shake the panic I felt.

"I'm scared, Ali, scared that what I thought was attraction is really love. I can't love her. I will not let myself love a woman that can never love me in return. But even as I write those words, I know that it isn't worth trying to prevent it. The damage is irreparable. She is in my heart, in my soul. I can feel her under my skin.

"Those few moments, when I thought she had perished in the motor car were the most unbearable of my miserable life. Even more unbearable than falling out of love with Rosie, more than the war, more than the death I witness. Thinking that she was gone was the worst moment of my entire life. I don't know what to say anymore.

"Months ago, I kissed her, and that was, in retrospect, my undoing. She was looking a gunman in the eye, a former lover that abused her. But I lied to her. I didn't kiss her to protect her. I kissed her to protect me. I would have killed that man if it hadn't been for her. The idea that someone caused her pain, that someone took her for granted, drives me to rage. But in that one kiss, she took my soul. Give me my sin again!

"But she refuses to belong to any man, and I respect (love) her too much to not honor that. I must suffer in silence until I can put myself out of my misery.

"Your true friend,  
Johnny."

"The inspector to see you, madam," Mr. Butler's voice was a jolt to her nerves, and Phryne flinched, her hand rising to her cheek to wipe away a tear that she didn't realize she had shed. Jack was hovering behind him, looking chagrined.

"Miss Fisher," he said, trying to be formal. She was momentarily lost in the lines of his face, the slight downturn of his mouth, the displeasure that was manifested in the clench of his hands around his hat. He was still angry, still upset. But his eyes…his eyes were soft. They had seen her wipe away a tear. She could see a shadow of guilt in them too. He thought he was the reason.

"Alina called you," she said simply.

"I was ordered to come here and speak to you, under threat of torture," he explained, turning his hat by the brim in between his strong hands.

Phryne held up the letter and watched as Jack registered that she was holding a letter that hadn't been written for her, and his face paled as he realized exactly which letter she had read.

"You weren't supposed to read that," he said quietly, the tense lines around his mouth loosening.

"But I have," she replied.

He looked frightened, like a criminal rapidly seeing his confession rise up in his throat. His eyes darted to the door and Phryne stepped toward him, taking his hands in hers. He dropped his hat to the floor; it settled between them.

"I'm sorry," she said, lowering her eyes to their joined hands. His grip on her hands tightened momentarily. "I thought I was being sensible."

"You thought you were saving us both the trouble," Jack agreed. He always understood her, even if he was often a couple of steps behind. "Miss Fisher, has it ever occurred to you that if I didn't want trouble, I would have had you arrested a long time ago?"

She let a laugh tumble out of her mouth, and his chest was rumbling with his own laughter, and she felt the nervousness leak out of them both. He pulled her to him and hugged her close, cradling the back of her head and kissing the top of her head.

"Nightcap?" she asked, pulling away from him slightly.

"I have to get back," Jack said regretfully. "I have an interview with Donald Kastan early tomorrow morning."

She felt disappointment spread through her limbs, but nodded anyway, still unable to shake the smile on her lips. He was staring at her too, the way he was wont to do recently, his eyes alight with something she could never place. But she could place it now. Love.

Quickly, and before the moment could get broken, he swooped in to press his lips to hers, his hands cupping both sides of her face. She allowed him the control, relishing in the feel of his confidence, her own vulnerability, and the culmination of years of dancing around it. Finally, after several breathless moments, he stepped away from her.

"I think I could do with a nightcap," he said, pulling her toward the chaise that Mac had been occupying.

He spent the rest of the evening getting drunk on her kisses instead of her liquor.


End file.
